You Are Here
by MoonlightGardenias
Summary: One shot, incredibly loosely based on revival spoilers. It's not much, but it's a start.


_The feeling of chubby fingers poking at his face jolts Mulder awake, and for a second his hand starts to dart out in search of a gun before the face in front of him comes into focus. Eyes as blue as those of the woman sleeping next to him are filled with tears, and though he doesn't know why, he wants to take their cause away. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, forcing himself into a sitting position. "Hey bud, what's wrong?"_

 _"I had a dream, there was a man under my bed. He was a monster. Can I sleep in here?"_

 _"Oh, Will," Mulder says, pulling his son close. He watches the boy's bottom lip tremble, but he remains defiant. Despite the fear, he won't let himself cry. Mulder pats his back, fingers carding through his hair. While he wants to tell William that the man from his dream can't possibly be real, that monsters don't exist, he can't bring himself to lie to him. He's seen things and experienced things he prays his son will never experience, and while Scully's taken to scientifically trying to explain away his fears, Mulder has decided to take a different tactic. "I tell you what, buddy. I'll show you a trick to keep the monsters away, and if it doesn't work then you can sleep in here, okay?"_

 _William grabs his arm, eyes wide. "But he's in there! With red eyes and-"_

 _"Mulder, what's going on?"_

 _Beside him, Scully stirs, turning to face them. He sees the weariness of working two doubles in the last week etched on her face, and so he assures her everything is fine, saying he's taking William to his room before coming back to bed himself._

 _"What if he comes back?" William asks, voice wavering. He's trying to be brave and strong, but despite the comfort of his father tucking him in he still feels uncertain._

 _"I want you to use this," Mulder says, pulling a flashlight from the bedside table. He flicks it on, making a show of shining it under the bed and around the room before handing it to him. "All clear. Keep it on as long as you need, Will. As long as you have the light, they'll stay away."_

 _William holds the flashlight, suspicious, but feels safer than he did moments before. "Thank you."_

You're more like your mother than you realize, _Mulder thinks, ruffling his hair as he leans down to kiss his forehead. "Try to get some sleep," he says, heading for the door._

 _"Dad?"_

 _The soft voice from behind him stops Mulder in his tracks. He closes his eyes, momentarily overcome with emotion. There was a time he never thought he'd hear that word directed at himself. "Yeah?"_

 _William burrows further under the covers, clutching the flashlight tightly in his hand. "Could you leave the door open?"_

Mulder jolts awake, heart racing as he sits up straight. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and a few more seconds to remember where he is and why. A cabin in backwoods Tennessee, because of course that's where at least a dozen children were reported missing, coupled with local folklore about monsters and lights in the dark. It was their forte.

He runs a hand across his face, the starchy sheets of the bed itching at his exposed skin, so he stands and walks to the window as he pieces together the rest of what he knows about what brought him here. He and Scully had interviewed local personnel at the camp grounds they were staying at until almost nine. When the time came, they parted ways on the steps of their duplex cabin, and without a tv to drown out his thoughts, he stared at the wall separating their rooms and tried convincing himself going to her room wasn't a good idea. Sleep granted him a reprieve, until the dream, and so now he finds himself peering through the curtains into the hazy moonlight, with a feeling he just can't shake.

His fingers reach up, gingerly brushing his cheek, and he feels the ghosts of William's fingers echoing his own. He knows it wasn't, rationally, but it felt so real.

The need for air becomes urgent, so he pushes the door open and is halfway down the steps before he hears her calling his name.

"Late night walk?"

Mulder closes his eyes, breathing in deep, before shuffling back up the steps. He sighs, eyes drifting over her shadowed form. "I couldn't sleep. I suppose I could assume you standing out here in the dark means you can't either?"

Scully shakes her head and leans against the wooden porch railing, cotton pajamas clinging loosely to her frame, her robe doing very little to keep her warm. She notices the way his eyes take her in and would be lying if she said there wasn't at least a small part of her that enjoyed it. She holds a bottle of wine in her hand, gesturing in his direction. "You want some?"

"Doctor Scully, drinking on a work night? I don't believe it," Mulder teases, shifting closer to her. He watches as she produces a sleeve of Dixie paper cups from her robe pocket and pours wine into one before handing it to him, and he tells himself it's just his imagination when he thinks her fingers linger a moment longer than necessary. They've been back working together a few weeks now and have only had the opportunity to truly be alone a few times, so despite the chill creeping into him, he's not about to turn the opportunity down.

She smiles, and perhaps it's the fact she's at least several paper cups ahead of him, but she's feeling a bit more open. "You better believe it," she says, taking a sip from her cup. She turns towards him, watching as he settles against the railing next to her, and tries not to think about how much warmer she might be if he stepped even closer. "I was reviewing the medical records sent over to me, and I realized I had begun reading the same sentence over and over again, so I decided I needed a break," she continues, her words spilling out quicker than she intends for them to. She takes another gulp from the cup, its waxy paper growing softer under her fingers, but she refills it anyway, finding herself wishing it were bigger. "Couldn't sleep, huh?"

He laughs, seeing a side of her he hasn't in a long time. For whatever reason, she's freer and more open in a way he thinks is more than just the alcohol, but he knows better than to question it. "You could say that, yeah," he says, nodding slowly. He cranes his neck, catching hints of the constellations peppered across the sky peeking out between the clouds. The wind kicks up, scattering dried leaves across the ground, and unwittingly images flash of falls that might have been; of raking leaves with a freckled boy who might look like him, and of he woman at his side joining them. There can be whole stretches of time-weeks, even-where he can push William to the periphery of his consciousness, where he can convince himself the boy in the dreams is just a figment of his imagination. And in some ways he is, Mulder supposes, given the brief amount of time they'd had. But whether it is working in close proximity with Scully again, or maybe just their current case, something has stirred memories of what might have been.

"Hey," Scully says. She sets the bottle of wine on the porch between them and rests her hand against his arm. "Are you okay?" She knows asking this question could open up a whole realm of conversation they might not be ready for, but her therapist has told her that sometimes all it takes is at least bridging the gap. Of course, their gap sometimes feels more like a canyon that can't possibly be bridged, and there was a time she wouldn't even have to ask to pry whatever is bugging him out into the open. Packing up her car and getting an apartment in the city, saying it was best they both had space to think and breathe had certainly damaged their already frayed lines of communication however, and a few weeks into their working together again the ice is just beginning to thaw.

"I had a dream," he says, downing the last of his wine. He considers crushing his cup and throwing it across the campground, but he thinks better of it. He could lie, come up with something at least vaguely related to the case that he might dream about, and she might actually believe him. There are a few things he can't stand lying to her about however, even if telling the truth might hurt, and this is one of them. "It was, uh...it was about him. William."

The last time their son's name had been spoken between them had been a moment of anger. He'd taken off for almost two weeks with little more than a vague post-it note telling her where he'd gone, in search of what she'd tried so hard to keep safe. They'd survived for several months after that, dancing around what felt like a proverbial cliff face, but his name had essentially all but been banned from conversation. But they're in a better place now, or at least it feels like they are, and if there's a time to have this sort of conversation, she guesses now is as good as any. "What was it about?"

He knows she wouldn't want him to acknowledge them, so he pretends he doesn't hear the tears in her voice. "He was scared. About something, I don't know, but I did what I could to stop it."

Scully smiles, eyes watery, and she slides the hand resting on his arm down, sliding her fingers in between his, and she's relieved when he doesn't pull away. "The dreams feel real sometimes, don't they?"

"Yeah, they do," Mulder replies, surprised at how healthy they're being, at getting this out in the open. A few days after they'd started working together again, she'd mentioned the fact they had a son together, as if that was something he could allow himself to ever forget. He'd wanted to ask, because he's always suspected she's had the dreams too, but the relief at his theory being true is bigger than he wants to admit. "I'm sorry, Scully. I really am."

About leaving. About shutting her out. About the hurt he perhaps couldn't have prevented, but could have made less painful. The possibilities of just what he might be apologizing for this time linger in the air, but for whatever reason, they're starting to feel less heavy. "Me too," she replies, but before the mood grows more somber, she pulls away from him and brings the wine bottle back into view. "There are some things in the medical records I was reviewing I believe you might find interesting, Mulder, but first I think we should make a toast."

The moment for deep conversation has apparently passed, but the light he catches in her eyes makes up for it. "To what?"

Scully reaches for his cup, refilling it before topping off her own. She sets the bottle back down and looks back at him, considering her words carefully. "To possibility."

He waits, expecting some sort of speech about just what kind of possibility she might be referring to, but when she doesn't elaborate he raises his cup and taps it against hers, downing it in a few quick gulps. Beside him, he hears her laugh quietly. "What?"

She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand. "Nothing. I don't suppose either of us will be getting much sleep tonight, so would you like to come in and take a look at the records?"

He hadn't taken a look at the clock before running outside, but Mulder knows it's late and she's probably right about neither of them getting a whole lot of sleep. But when morning does come, they'll slide back into their cool professional exteriors, at least to the outside world, so he can't help but want to hold onto whatever this moment is for just a little bit longer. "I think maybe we could just stay out here, just for a minute. But only if that's okay."

They've only been standing outside for a few minutes, but it feels like the temperature has started to drop. She slides closer to him, telling herself it's just for warmth, even as she feels his hand cover her own. "Okay," she says, her voice little more than a hushed whisper. They stand like that, hands interlocked and resting against the railing, a solid unit of grief and love and more scars than they can count. She finds herself grateful that even if they're not completely healed, they have made it back to this place.


End file.
